Sbho has moved on to massaging and so I start massaging as well. We knead the flesh and knead the flesh until Chipo closes her eyes. There is drool coming from the corner of her mouth and I tell her to wipe it off because it’s disgusting.
This is what they do in ER, Sbho says. I think, What is ER? I cannot remember, so I just keep quiet. Forgiveness doesn’t say anything either, and I know she too doesn’t know.
I saw it on TV in Harare when I visited Sekuru Godi. ER is what they do in a hospital in America. In order to do this right, we need new names. I am Dr. Bullet, she is beautiful, and you are Dr. Roz, he is tall, Sbho says, nodding at me.
You said he, I don’t want to be a man, I say.
Well, that’s who I remember, either you are that or you are nothing, Sbho says, making a cutting motion across Chipo’s stomach.
And you, you are Dr. Cutter, Sbho says to Forgiveness, and Forgiveness spits and ignores Sbho.
Who am I? Chipo says.
You, you are a patient. Patients are just called patients, Sbho says.
Dr. Cutter has finished undoing the clothes hanger; now she is trying to straighten it. I think about how Dr. Bullet and I collected the rocks, the metal cup, and the belt between us and are now rubbing the patient’s stomach without Dr. Cutter, then I realize that maybe she is running away from helping.
How come you are not even doing anything? I ask Dr. Cutter.
What? Can’t you see I’m busy with this? she says, pointing the hanger straight to my head like she wants to plunge it in my eye. I suck my teeth, swat it away.
So? That’s not even doing anything, I say. Look at what Dr. Bullet and I have done all by ourselves, look at what we are doing now.
Well, you need a clothes hanger to get rid of a stomach.
Who told you that? Dr. Bullet says.
No, you don’t, she’s lying, I say.
It’s true too. You can’t do without a clothes hanger, everybody knows that. Even those rocks over there know that. It’s like common sense, Dr. Cutter says.
The patient props herself up and rests on her elbows. She squints at Dr. Cutter but she does not say anything. Then she lies back down and looks up, maybe at the branches, maybe at the sky. Dr. Cutter picks up a stone, goes to a flattened rock, and starts bashing the clothes hanger with the rock to make it straighter. Small sparks of fire fly.
What exactly will you do with the clothes hanger? I say.
Remove the stomach, Dr. Cutter says.
Yes, we know, but how? Dr. Bullet says.
You’ll see, Dr. Cutter says.
My arms feel tired from massaging the patient’s stomach so I stop and just sit on my haunches. Dr. Bullet doesn’t stop; she keeps massaging and massaging. When she puts an ear to the stomach I don’t ask her what she is doing, listening to a stomach like that.
I wish I had a stethoscope, Dr. Bullet says, which I don’t know what it is.
I want a doll, the patient says. A proper doll with a battery that you can turn off when you want it to stop crying.
When I go to live with Aunt Fostalina in America I’ll send you the doll. There are lots of nice things over there, I say. The patient just looks at me like I haven’t even said anything.
Dr. Cutter finishes with the clothes hanger and lays it besides the patient. It looks straight, like it was never bent to begin with. Then she kneels and pulls at the patient’s boy’s shorts.
Wait, what are you doing? the patient asks, giggling, but Dr. Cutter keeps tugging at the shorts. The patient sits and snatches them back up.
I said, what are you doing? the patient asks again. Now she has a look on her face.
Taking off your shorts. You have to be naked, Dr. Cutter says, all serious.
No, I don’t. If I take off my shorts then you’ll see my thing, the patient says and crosses her legs. She looks at Dr. Bullet and me, to see if we think she needs to take off her shorts. I frown and shake my head no, and she pulls her dress back down her thighs.
Why do you want to see her thing? Don’t you have yours to look at if you really want to see one? Dr. Bullet says.
Because it’s what you have to do. The clothes hanger goes through the thing. You push it in until all of it disappears inside; it reaches deep into the stomach, where the baby is, hooks it, and then you can pull it out. I know because I overheard my sister and her friend talking about how it’s done, Dr. Cutter says. She is holding the hanger in the air and pushing and twisting it this way and that to show how the whole thing is going to go. We are silent for a while, just watching the wire dance and letting it all sink in. I cannot read anything on Dr. Bullet’s face to see if we are going to go through with it or what. She is looking up into the tree, lips pressed tight, maybe thinking.
Well, is it painful or not? Dr. Bullet says at last.
How do I know? It’s not like I’ve done it. But we are not cutting anybody so how can it be painful? Dr. Cutter says.
You are lying, the patient says. Her thighs are pressed together, her face contorted as if the hanger is inside her already. I notice her eyes are wide now, fearful. They remind me of the eyes of the woman dangling in the tree, the one whose shoes we took.
Okay. Do you want to die or not? Dr. Cutter asks in this stop-nonsense voice.
Don’t you know that if you use a clothes hanger, there will be blood? We can’t have blood, people will know, Dr. Bullet says.
Well, what, then? Dr. Cutter asks. She picks up the clothes hanger and jabs the earth. Dirt flies from the hole, onto my dress. I brush it off. Dr. Cutter gets up and walks away. We watch her stop before a bush and spread her legs. She hikes up her dress and starts to pee.
I don’t see MotherLove coming but I suddenly smell lemon and look up and she is towering over us, her long shadow falling over everything. She frowns and looks around, her nose crinkled. She has yellow butterflies flying on her green gown. We start to get up but she tells us not to move.
Jesus, what is going on here? MotherLove asks. I see Forgiveness finish peeing and start to run off but MotherLove calls her right back and points her to the ground, next to Sbho. Forgiveness sits like a dog told to sit. I am just wringing my hands and thinking what will happen if MotherLove marches us all to the shanty and tells our mothers. I would rather she wallop me herself, here and now; I would rather anybody, even Satan himself, wallop me instead of my mother. Mother wallops like she wants to draw blood and break bone, like she wants to kill and bury you at Heavenway.
Anybody want to tell me what in the Lord’s name is going on? MotherLove asks. She looks from one face to another. I turn away, look at the church people going up Fambeki for the afternoon prayers, and I almost want them to pray for me so I can escape this.
Look at me when I talk to you, child, MotherLove says. She brings her face close to mine like she wants to kiss me. Her eyes are large, the white part like it’s been dipped in milk. She is beautiful, but now the way she is looking makes her ugly.
So. What is this? she says with a frown. And don’t lie to me because I have better things to do than be lied to.
We didn’t even do anything, Forgiveness says. Sbho is drawing patterns on the earth with her toe. Chipo starts to cry.
MotherLove bends down to pick up the hanger. Her gown sweeps the earth and leaves lines.
What is this? she says, looking at Chipo, who just keeps crying. MotherLove turns to Sbho.
What is this? she asks again.
It’s a clothes hanger, Sbho says. But I’m not the one who made it like that. Sbho and I look at Forgiveness to say, without saying it, that she did it.
I was just—we were trying to remove Chipo’s stomach, Forgiveness says, looking down at the ntsaro. Then she bursts into tears. Chipo raises her voice and starts to wail.
MotherLove shakes her head, and then her body heaves downward, like she is a sack falling. But she is not angry. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t slap or grab anybody by the ears. She doesn’t say she will kill us or tell the mothers. I look at her
face and see the terrible face of someone I have never seen before, and on the stranger’s face is this look of pain, this look that adults have when somebody dies. There are tears in the eyes and she is clutching her chest like there’s a fire inside it.
Then MotherLove reaches out and holds Chipo. We are all watching and not knowing what to do because when grown-ups cry, it’s not like you can ask them what’s wrong, or tell them to shut up; there are just no words for a grown-up’s tears. Then Chipo stops crying and wraps her arms around MotherLove, even though they don’t really reach around. A purple lucky butterfly sits at the top of Chipo’s head and when it flies away, Forgiveness chases it. Then Sbho and I take off after Forgiveness, and we are all chasing the butterfly and screaming out for luck.
Shhhh
Father comes home after many years of forgetting us, of not sending us money, of not loving us, not visiting us, not anything us, and parks in the shack, unable to move, unable to talk properly, unable to anything, vomiting and vomiting, Jesus, just vomiting and defecating on himself, and it smelling like something dead in there, dead and rotting, his body a black, terrible stick; I come in from playing Find bin Laden and he is there.
Just there. Parked. In the corner. On Mother’s bed. So thin, like he eats pins and wire, so thin at first I don’t even see him under the blankets. I am getting on the bed to get the jump rope for playing Andy-over when F—when he lifts his head and I see him for the first time. He is just length and bones. He is rough skin. He is crocodile teeth and egg-white eyes, lying there, drowning on the bed.
I don’t even know it’s Father at the time so I run outside, screaming and screaming. Mother meets me with a slap and says, Shhhh, and points me back to the shack. I go, one hand covering my pain, the other folded in a fist in my mouth. By the time we are at the door I know without Mother saying anything. I know it’s Father. Back. Back after all those years of forgetting us.
His voice sounds like something burned and seared his throat. My son. My boy, he says. Listening to him is painful; I want to put my hands on my ears. He is like a monster up close and I think of running again but Mother is standing there in a red dress looking dangerous. My boy, he keeps saying, but I don’t tell him that I’m a girl, I don’t tell him to leave me alone.
Then he lifts his bones and pushes a claw towards me and I don’t want to touch it but Mother is there looking. Looking like Jesus looks at you from Mother of Bones’s calendar so you don’t sin. I remain standing until Mother pushes me by the back of my neck, then I stagger forward and almost fall onto the terrible bones. The claw is hard and sweaty in my hand and I withdraw it fast. Like I’ve touched fire. Later, I don’t want to touch myself with that hand, I don’t want to eat with it or do nothing with it, I even wish I could throw the hand away and get another.
My boy, he says again. I do not turn to look at him because I don’t even want to look at him. He keeps saying, My boy, my boy, until I finally say, I’m not a boy, are you crazy? Go back, get away from our bed and go back to where you come from with your ugly bones, go back and leave us alone, but I’m saying it all inside my head. Before I have finished saying all I’m trying to say he has shat himself and it feels like we’re inside a toilet.
Mother had not wanted Father to leave for South Africa to begin with, but it was at that time when everybody was going to South Africa and other countries, some near, some far, some very, very far. They were leaving, just leaving in droves, and Father wanted to leave with everybody and he was going to leave and nothing would stop him.
Look at how things are falling apart, Felistus, he said one day, untying his shoes. We were sitting outside the shack and Mother was cooking. Father was coming from somewhere I don’t know where, and he was angry. He was always angry those days; it was like the kind and funny man with the unending laugh and the many stories, the man who had been my father all those years, had gone and left an angry stranger behind. And little by little I was getting afraid of him, the angry stranger who was supposed to be my father.
Mother kept on stirring the pot on the fire, choosing to ignore him. Those days, you knew when and when not to talk to Father from the tone in his voice, that tone that could switch on and off like the lights. The tone he was using at that moment was switched to on.
We should have left. We should have left this wretched country when all this started, when Mgcini offered to take us across.
Things will get better, Mother said, finally. There is no night so long that doesn’t end with dawn. It won’t stay like this, will it? And besides, we can’t all abandon our country now.
Yes the wife is right it will get better my son and the Lord God is here he will not forsake us he will not for he is a loving God, Mother of Bones said, rubbing her hands together like she was washing them, like she was apologizing for something, like it was cold outside. Mother of Bones said God like she knew God personally, like God was not even something bigger than the sky but a small, beautiful boy with spaced hair you could count and missing buttons on his Harvard shirt, who spoke with a stammer and played Find bin Laden with us. That’s how it felt, the way Mother of Bones said God.
Then Father laughed, but it wasn’t a laughing-laughing laugh.
You all don’t get it, do you? Is this what I went to university for? Is this what we got independence for? Does it make sense that we are living like this? Tell me! Father said.
All I know is that I’m certainly not clamoring to go across the borders to live where I’m called a kwerekwere. Wasn’t Nqobile here from that Hillbrow just two days ago telling us the truth of how it is over there? Mother said. She stirred more mealie-meal into the pot.
And besides, all my family is here. What about my aging parents? What about your mother? And you, get away, imbecile, go and play with your friends before I chop off those big ears, what are you listening for? she said to me, like she always did every time there was adult talk or they argued, and they argued a lot those days.
Father left not too long after that. And later, when the pictures and letters and money and clothes and things he had promised didn’t come, I tried not to forget him by looking for him in the faces of the Paradise men, in the faces of my friends’ fathers. I would watch the men closely, wondering which of their gestures my father would be likely to make, which voice he would use, which laugh. How much hair would cover his arms and face.
Shhhh—you must not tell anyone, and I mean an-y-one, you hear me? Mother says, looking at me like she is going to eat me. That your father is back and that he is sick. When Mother says this I just look at her. I don’t say yes or nod, I don’t anything. Because I have to watch Father now, like he is a baby and I am his mother, it means that when Mother and Mother of Bones are not there, I cannot play with my friends, so I have to lie to them about why.
In the beginning, when they come over to our shack to get me, I stand outside the door and yawn as wide as I can and tell them I am tired. Then I tell them I am having the headaches that won’t go away. Then I tell them I am having the flu. Then diarrhea. It’s not the lying itself that makes me feel bad but the fact that I’m here lying to my friends. I don’t like not playing with them and I don’t like lying to them because they are the most important thing to me and when I’m not with them I feel like I’m not even me.
One day I’m standing at the door with just my head out and I’m telling them I have measles. I don’t know why I think it, but the word is suddenly there, on my tongue, speaking itself. Measles.
Is it painful? Sbho says. She is looking at me with her head tilted-like, the way a mother is supposed to do when you tell her about anything serious.
Yes, it is, I say. And then I add, It itches. Soon, it will become wounds and then I won’t be able to come out to play for a while, I say. I cannot read the look on Stina’s face but Godknows is looking at me with his mouth open. Bastard is just narrowing his eyes, watching me like I’m stealing something, and Sbho’s face is twisted, as if she’s sick with measles herself. Chipo
is sitting down, drawing patterns with a stick on the ground.
What about the World Cup? Godknows says. You are not playing in the World Cup? We even found a real leather ball in Budapest because somebody forgot it outside.
Maybe my measles will be gone by the time it’s World Cup, then I can come and be Drogba, I say, scratching my neck to make like it’s itching.
True? Godknows says.
Yes, cross my heart and hope to die, I say.
Good, but you can’t be Drogba, can’t you see I’m already Drogba? Godknows says.
Liar, you’re lying, Bastard says. You don’t have measles and you’re not sick and you haven’t been sick. He is standing on one leg like a cock and chewing a blade of grass. He looks me in the eye and I know he wants me to say something back so he can say something worse. We are all standing there, everybody waiting for me to say something to Bastard, but I know I’m not opening my mouth.
We remain like that, and the silence is big and fat between us like it’s something you can touch when the coughing starts. It is loud and raw and terrible and at first it takes me by surprise. I start, but then I quickly remember that he is in the shack. By now it’s too late for me to do anything to hide it, and everybody is looking me in the eye, looking and waiting for me to say something, to explain.
I can’t think what to say so I just stand there, sweating and listening to the cough pounding the walls, pounding and pounding and pounding, and I’m saying in my head, Stop, please stop, stop stop stop stop please, but he keeps pounding and pounding and pounding until I just turn around and slam the door shut, behind me a voice saying, Wait!
What you got in there? What you got?
I hear Bastard’s voice close to the door, like he is going to maybe turn the handle and come in. I pull the latch and listen to him saying things and telling me to open and making jokes. When, finally, he goes quiet I sink down to the floor and just sit there, feeling tired. I look to the corner and he is looking at me with those eyes, wild, like he is some kind of animal caught in the glare of light on Mzilikazi Road, looking at me with his shrunken head, with his pinking lips, with his stench of sickness.
We Need New Names: A Novel Page 7